That My Man Godric redone repost (One of two)

Title: My Man Godric
Summary: Bertie is just the king's foolish, embroidery loving, sometimes crossdressing brother, useless in times of crisis and completely beneath the notice of someone strong like the country's most famous general, Godric of the South. Or so Bertie thinks.
For janedavitt who bid on me in the charity auction for Australia's recent floods at Fandom Floods Appeal. She is awesome and kind and I truly hope she likes this. She gets both the original version and this newer one. :P *much love*





Although Bertie had lived this moment over and over in his mind during the past two long months, had dreamed it to keep himself warm at night and reshaped it to stay hopeful during the day, the true moment itself was a blur of sick, twisting worry, dizzying weariness, and the one overriding thought that he must look a mess.

Not just a mess, but a wreck. The crazy disaster that he was known for being, even if he had never in his life been so dirty, or so tired, or dressed so terribly. Not once, not even as a child had his hair been so tangled and stiff with dirt, his fingernails broken and stained, his clothing rough. He had not even had the time to attend to the fit of his borrowed clothing and the sleeves still did not reach past his wrists, leaving his hands numb and red with cold.

Distantly, he was still somewhat upset about that last point though he was aware it was shallow and stupid to fret over the fit of clothing borrowed from kind people and worn for the sake of survival. But there was almost nothing in the world so lovely as fine, soft clothes made from cloth bright as a rainbow. At home he would have cut and sewn his attire himself, embroidered the detail of robes and breeches and skirts to his height, and mad and useless as he was, no one could deny that he had looked beautiful enough to have his pick of lovers.

But rainbow-hued damask didn't suit hiding in dark forests and wild mountain ranges anymore than silks suited the icy air that signaled winter's approach.

He would have had to resort to borrowed clothing in any event, as his finest cloak, alas, was now in two pieces and draped over the shoulders of the widow Flanders' two small children, his second finest over the widow herself. Noble though the cause, his skin now itched and burned with every step where it had been rubbed raw by coarse material and it was one more reason aside from his vanity to lament the loss of his things.

He had decided the very first day in these clothes that he would see to better clothing for his own servants the moment the opportunity was available and he reaffirmed that decision to himself as he hesitated and stood there like a lump. His people should be dressed in material that was warm and thick and soft and fitted to them, so no children went cold and no one else was driven crazy by the rough scratch of this horrible brown cloth.

Ahead of him was the largest tent in the camp, the door flap already partially opened and spilling orange light out over Bertie and the people waiting behind him. It was even more selfish and shallow and stupid, but he wasted another moment hoping there was a vast, soft feather bed on the other side of that door flap, along with water for a hot bath. He wanted those more than he wanted food though his stomach was making a nuisance of itself once again.

He patted his chest soothingly and then threw aside the thin cloak that had been loaned to him by one of the three stern soldiers that rode guard around his far too small band of survivors. He immediately shivered at the cold touch of evening air, or perhaps at the thought of those left behind, though he couldn't let himself dwell on that yet. Not now.

Beyond the doorway lay safety, rescue, and the love of his life. He knew that, but he stopped with his hand out, feeling the warmth radiating out from inside the tent in his clumsy, half-frozen fingers. He shivered again. This truly was not how he'd meant things to go.

Godric's captain, the blond-haired, perpetually unhappy man-at-arms at Bertie's side paused too, quite obviously stopping himself from prodding Bertie forward, perhaps recalling Bertie's rank just in time.

It was a thing that Bertie had a feeling many forgot, either due to his dress or his careless manners, but Bertie had never much minded the slights for he was well aware that he had no interest in governance or war craft as his brother had.

Nonetheless, Bertie opened his mouth to lick his regrettably cracked and dry lips. Wiping a hand over his face and feeling stubble at his jaw made him wince, as did the quick finger-comb of his short hair. Even with his reputation, even knowing the world often thought him useless, the king's illegitimate half-brother, the princeling with a love of needlework and feminine clothing, he could not help but fret over his appearance at this moment.

Then he heard the children behind him suppress a tired complaint, heard an elderly steward shift against the branch that had served as his crutch, and raised his chin. The captain seemed to still, and Bertie narrowed his eyes in a fair approximation of his brother's manner.

His tone however, was all his own.

"You will see to my people, will you not, Captain?" he wondered sweetly, imploringly, and yet well aware that he would not be denied. He did not wait for the inevitable agreement. There was only one answer any man could give to Aethelbert of Clas Draigoch, and that was yes.

Unless of course that man was Godric of the South.

Bertie put a hand to his stomach to quell its excitement, though heat was rising in his cheeks and he was trembling like the last remaining leaves in the trees around them.

Godric.

He pushed inside the tent with sudden impatience, forgetting about both his fears and his impossible fantasies of collapsing into his beloved's arm as he realized he would actually get to see Godric if he moved forward. Godric was here. Close and real and alive.

Also probably irritated with him as usual. He would be polite, spare with his words, but distant.

Bertie stumbled at the thought, worn to the bone, but held up a hand to ward off attempts to help him so he could look past the council of knights gathered around a table. He ignored every startled look of recognition and surprised, hurried bow until he found his target, his treasure, the straightening figure at the other end of the room.

Sir Godric of the South. The hero of Bohdon. The Master of the Horse and Captain of the King's Guard. The stable boy turned soldier turned knight, honored and feared for his courage and wisdom and skill in war even in the lands beyond the sea. If rumors were true, the one man the king turned to for honesty aside from his foolish, bastard brother, and the one man the Green Men from the East were said to want dead more than any other.

He was, on his feet, about half a head shorter than most of the other men in the room and mere inches shorter than the Hereditary Count Vonridii, the lone woman present. He had untamed pale hair, rich with silver, which thinned slightly above the temples, and piercing eyes for all that their color was an unremarkable brown.

He wore plain, likely itchy, coarsely-made breeches, and a shirt with sleeves so short his forearms were bare, revealing soldier's tattoos, the painful work of a tiny needle and ground up bark and hours of patience. Chainmail glinted at his neck.

Though he could see no visible wounds, Bertie's heart pounded for one moment at the sight of the tarnished metal links. He had to blink away the vision of blood, of lives lost and blades buried in flesh, and held back his gasp with unappreciated effort. Then he looked back up.

There were lines at the corner of Godric's eyes, lines Bertie had not seen before, lines not there when Bertie had last leaned toward him to offer a painfully respectful farewell. Seeing them hurt in the way that he was used to hurting around Godric, his chest sore as though it was bruised and his body shaking with helplessness, and he wanted nothing so much as to run to Godric and hold him until he felt as strong as Godric looked, until those cracks at his eyes went away and never returned.

Instead he swallowed and silently burned with the effort to keep still as Godric looked him over; Bertie was a spoiled creature, it was true, but he would not like to force himself on Godric, again, simply because that was what he wanted. Or, at least not when he was a dirty wreck. He recalled himself and his scraps of dignity at the thought, enough to nod a greeting as he could not seem to force out a sound.

"My lord," Godric spoke in his low, quiet voice, as warm and solid as a hearthstone. "I am happy to find you alive and unharmed." That was all, but Bertie reveled in it. He had often wondered if his ever-silent Godric had learned to make his words rare in a court that mocked his low birth. His origin was in his accent for all to hear, although no one in this tent seemed to find it worthy of scorn. Not one eyebrow in the room was raised.

With no one then to glare at on Godric's behalf as there often was in Camlann, Bertie had no choice but to stare back at Godric. He did not mind. Godric might have been short, but he was thick with hard-earned muscle, and his skin spoke of health and sunshine. Health. Bertie thanked the gods.

The last time the invaders had come, Bertie had been younger and sheltered behind Camlann's walls, but he had heard the stories of what they had done to anyone who had defied them, stories enough to give soldiers pause and leave others trembling with remembered fear.

But for now, Godric lived. Inside Bertie was pure joy, white like the heat of weapons being forged. Godric was alive and in front of him and had not been captured or tortured or killed.

Thus, because Bertie was not only a fool but a fool in love, what finally emerged from his mouth was, "You grew the beard again" and a small tut of despair.

He could have bitten his tongue.

In truth, he did not mind the short beard, though it was rare to see a nobleman unshaven. It was simply a long-standing, friendly jest between them, or so he'd thought, begun years ago with Godric riding alongside Bertie on the trail to the Keep while Bertie had pestered him with a thousand and one questions.

The others assembled in the room seemed shocked at the perceived rebuke. Godric, praise the lady, merely scratched at his chin. It was his custom to forgo shaving when travelling, as they both knew. What was necessary to belong amongst courtiers was not so on the road, as he had once told Bertie, and then had reached out, letting his hand pass over Bertie's skirts without touching them.

Bertie did not wear his skirts to fit in or for comfort while travelling. He wore his skirts because he pleased to. Just as it had pleased him to touch himself at the memory of Godric's hand so close to him, and what Godric might have done if he had loved him in return, if he would have lifted them to suck his prick, or just to work him with one strong hand, if Godric would like the feel of them against his stomach and thighs as Bertie rode him.

"If it offends you, my lord--" Godric started and Bertie took another step forward before remembering himself and halting. Despite the lingering cold his blood was suddenly pounding. He wrapped his arms about his body to keep them safely away from Godric. He felt his cheeks flush. He had not meant to mock Godric, yet once again he had publically embarrassed the man.

"No, no, it's fine. I…we're at war…don't be… You should know better than to mind me. I am hopelessly--" He did bite his tongue. Would he never learn?

"It will be gone in the morning…" Godric went on anyway, as he always did, so courteous it was cruel, "…my lord."

Bertie shut his mouth, hard, but the protesting moan slipped out regardless. He hadn't meant that as an order. He would never speak so to Godric.

"Are you well, Lord Aethelbert?" someone else asked, and Bertie turned, barely sparing a glance for Baron Gywnn, even if he was a cousin. The man wasn't smirking at least, likely too taken aback by Bertie's appearance.

It wasn't fair. Clean, elegantly robed in silks embroidered by his own hand with the red dragon of his mother's people, Bertie might have had a chance to catch Godric's eye. He was tall, slender, with poplar-dark hair and skin of golden brown. Red flattered him. Skirts seemed to let him float as they wrapped and slid between his thighs. A tight bodice left his collarbone exposed, there to be kissed, or nibbled, at Godric's will.

Of course, if he'd been going to ensnare Godric when within Camlann's high walls, in a dress or even fine leggings, he would have done it by now; he'd certainly been bold enough in his attempts. A few twigs in his hair and scratchy breeches weren't likely to make any difference.

Bertie saw their eyes on him and put on the court smile he hated, though he was a bruised and saddle sore, though his feet hurt and his skin itched and the cold in his bones had not once faded, not once in the two months since he had stayed behind at the Keep to watch Godric ride away.

In that time he had gone without, lived in terror, felt blood on his hands, and not heard a single word of his brother or Godric. But he was Aethelbert of Clas Draigoch, so with chilled, shaking hands, he smoothed back his hair and straightened the heavy golden torque still at his throat. He should not have put it on or carried it with him from the Keep, but he'd thought he might need the gold if things grew desperate and had only put it on moments before in moment of foolish vanity.

It was a silly hope indeed that some shiny jewelry might do what his bold words and outstretched hands had not, and he sighed at both his dreams and his failures, then sighed again for the small flame of hope that someday, someday, he might at least return to the level of friendship he had once enjoyed with Godric before he had opened his mouth to declare his love for him for all the Court to hear.

"No. No I am not well," he answered honestly for that was more of his mad ways, ladylike and useless with a blade, crazy even for a child of the Red Dragon, effete even for a nobleman, but honest. It was how everyone thought of him and he couldn't deny it. For that he scowled and turned away from their eyes, aware that they would not understand how this had touched him.

"The Keep has been razed, its fields set afire, its people killed or scattered," he reported flatly, the wound still raw. The Keep was, had been, more his home than the capital city had ever been. Godric's eyes bored into him, intent and fiery, but Bertie had to finish. "Too… Too few remain alive and in my care, and even then I could not bring them all, only the children and the injured, and I promised I would send aid through I knew when I made the vow that I did not even know of Aethir lived."

There were raiders again in his mind's eye and he shuddered. They had been without horses, a small but ravenous force on foot, disrupting the peace of the valley and for what, vengeance for a war years behind them?

Bertie had never seen a green man with his own eyes though stories of their ferocity and ravenous forces had haunted many children in the dark of night. They had first come decades ago, arriving in their strange boats in small groups at first and then larger when they found the land to their liking. He did not know why they persisted in making their way down from the frozen lands in the high north across the seas or why they chose war over trade because their language remained a mystery and those about to be captured would often take their own lives on the battlefield.

He would admit, as many would, that he found them strange and frightening. Despite the resistance from the tough fishermen along the coast of Gallia the Green Men had gone down into their rivers toward their farmland until driven back after five long years of fighting. Then they had turned their attentions full force to taking the lolling hills and harsh mountains of Breta.

Breta had been formed from the conquer of many smaller kingdoms, but though differences between parts of the realm remained, none had hesitated to band together, West, North and South, to repel them when they had struck the coastal villages and pressed inward. They had built the wall across the land bridge in the icy marsh to the northeast and left watch towers at the harbors for each king, including the great Aethered and the future boy-king Aethir to defend.

In those wars when Godric had made a name for himself, impressing both father and son, and in battles since had earned the personal hatred of the different clans of the Green Men.

Some of the knights were obviously surprised by Bertie's news, by the direction of this new attack, the needless but symbolic victory in sacking the autumn resting place of the king.

"They came at night." Bertie focused back on Godric, pausing to see the man moving closer as though this was one of Bertie's fanciful dreams after all. "I had no time to send you the message I promised."

He had made that promise to send for Godric half in jest and half distracted at the intensity in Godric's voice. The tempting heat of him had been near and yet Godric had seemed furious, quietly shaking at Bertie's stupidity in staying behind while the rest of the world had ridden off to possible war. Perhaps it was his peasant upbringing, but Godric had little tolerance for fools.

"It is I who should apologize, my lord," Godric told him now, the same furrow between his eyes that had made him seem so fierce then. "When I heard the report of Green Men in the west descending the mountains…" He stopped and Bertie swayed, just a little, at his proximity.

In Bertie's dreams of this reunion he had not swayed. But in his dreams, he had also been clean and Godric's eyes had lit like new year bonfires to see him again. In his dreams, no one had died.

"My lord." Godric's name for him. Never Bertie. Never even Lord Aethelbert anymore. "I am sorry I could not come for you myself, that I had to send others in my place. But I could not leave here, and I had to know if you were alive." There was a small pause between the last two words, then Godric wiped at his face with an unbearably weary heaviness.

Bertie blinked down at his beloved, tired and just a touch confused.

"You had your duty." Because this was obvious, surely. Without duty, Bertie would have followed Godric from the Keep and never looked back. He understood it well. It was his duty to care for the people in his brother's absence as it was Godric's to protect Bertie no matter how vexing he found Bertie's devotion to him.

Bertie stared longingly into the piercing eyes at the thought, knowing that he was breathing hard and distantly aware that Godric also seemed to be struggling to find air though Bertie was too tired to ask him why.

"As lovely and poetic as it would have been to see you ride in to rescue me, Godric my love, I would never have asked it of you."

Godric's head went back at his words, color in his face, and Bertie froze. He honestly hadn't meant to embarrass Godric again. The last time had been enough.

"You should not speak in such a way to--" Godric tried and Bertie tossed his head. His vision swirled as he did, his pulse suddenly racing. Something kicked at his chest. He was so very tired. A week of frightened and harried travel hit him all at once. He swayed once more, and brave, protective Godric caught him with one hand at his arm.

He fell forward at the touch, bending to press himself against Godric's chest, inhaling the stink of tents and a soldier's camp, sweaty living Godric, iron and leather and all manner of unpleasant, beautiful odors.

Perhaps the others in the room remarked on it, or perhaps they were long used to Bertie's madness and said nothing, but Bertie did not look on them or hear a sound that didn't come from the man holding him up.

Godric's chest moved rapidly with his breath, the mail warm but hard beneath his shirt. The patches of his bare skin felt hot. His hand pulled back from Bertie's arm, but as always, he did not push Bertie away.

It was consideration for his rank, Bertie knew, and felt ashamed of himself once again for the small moment of advantage and weakness, but he shivered gratefully just the same. He thought that with enough time like this, the warmth might return to his bones at last and food would once again tempt his unhappy stomach.

"Oh my war-like Godric," he sighed to the throbbing vein at Godric's throat, with Godric's short beard against his mouth. "I am happy to see you unharmed as well."

Godric drew in a deep breath, then swallowed to speak.

But something wriggled between them, a fierce, annoyed wriggle that ended Godric's words before they began. He stepped back to stare down at the front of Bertie's loose, borrowed peasant clothing, and then Godric—the other Godric—poked his furry head out of the neck of Bertie's shirt, blinking yellow eyes and offering the room a meow that was as pitiful as how Bertie felt.


~~~



A few of the knights had found it amusing, Bertie reflected, feeling a sad sort of amusement as well as he stayed still under a mound of warm blankets that smelled of sweat and horse and, quite possibly, seed.

It was a tantalizing thought, or torturous, if he considered that Godric could have been with others here. The love of his heart had often taken other soldiers to his bed, if stories were to be believed, and Bertie had no reason not to believe them. Godric was a great man, and Bertie was not the only one to see it. He was simply the one who did not mind the world knowing at whose feet he longed to rest.

Godric—the wrong Godric, the feline Godric—was curled up at his side, asleep. The cat was skin and bones but Bertie feared he did not look much better. It had been some time since he'd sat down to a feast or even considered food anything but fuel to keep his body going. Two months in fact.

Godric the man, and the others present the night before, certainly had not seemed pleased with his appearance after watching Bertie remove his thin cloak and seeing exposed, bony wrists and sagging, loose clothing. Godric in particular had seemed much agitated when Bertie had stumbled, yet again, while trying to explain why the cat had been fed but he had not, and then as though Bertie was not a fully grown, quite tall man, he had found himself picked up and carried to the smaller enclosure in the tent and deposited here, in Godric's very bed, from Godric's very arms.

The bed was not made of feathers and was low to the ground, but it was very warm and indecently scented of Godric. Despite his protests, Bertie had fallen asleep to the sound of the unhappy captain relating their journey from the forests around the Keep to here.

Bertie recalled his own voice sleepily interrupting all those stark, bare facts of days with little to eat and freezing, huddled nights without fire, to entreat Godric to care for his people. He must have been loud, or possibly irritating enough, that Godric had returned to his bedside to stare down at him. Only when he'd finally nodded had Bertie given in and closed his eyes, knowing that even a nod meant Godric had given his word.

Godric doubtless would have cared for his people anyway, and if Bertie had not been so weary, and craving Godric's presence, he would have not demanded such a promise from him. But he'd had visions of the people from the Keep spending another night with growling bellies and no blankets and none of Bertie's stories to keep their spirits up. He liked to call these visions of his dreams though he knew Godric had another name for them and that Godric believed in listening to them.

Godric, as Bertie remembered from their long ago days of conversation, would consider every possible outcome in great detail, not just the outcomes he would like to consider, as Bertie did.

He was dirtying up Godric's bed, and there was movement in the outer room, but for one more moment, Bertie stayed where he was, holding onto his dreams for a bit longer. In this dream, when Godric had come to him to say goodbye, Bertie had kissed him and twined a wreath of flowers into his hair as tradition demanded. Then in another, Bertie would do the same again when Godric rode off to battle without him, as Godric more than likely would.

But then the spirit of his brother, and his father, and his mother, and even the widow Flanders who was not dead, compelled him to his feet. He had slept too long as it was, as the growing light creeping into the tent told him.

In the outer room he stopped in place and rubbed at his eyes. Then he smiled.

Godric was standing at attention near the table, and by the opposite corner of the tent, by three braziers hot even at a distance, was a small bathing tub.

"I love you," Bertie told him by way of good morning. Godric's shoulders went back and his glance over was gently reproving though he said not a word. He was wearing armor and a long fur cloak. Bertie's shoulders felt tired just imagining the weight.

Godric was armed as well, though he did not wear a helmet and carried no shield. So no battle was imminent then, but there was worry enough to have him ready for one. Bertie tried to keep his smile and conceal his concern, but feared he failed. Godric seemed to misunderstand his frown in any event and gestured toward the bathwater.

"Enjoy it. It might be your last chance for some time unless you are willing to risk a stream."

Bertie shivered as he removed his gold and rubbed at his sore neck. "I am far too delicate for an icy stream, Godric, everyone knows that."

"Delicate," Godric repeated, his chin rising slightly. It fell again when skin-and-bones Godric headed over to curl around his feet. Not hiding his envy, Bertie sighed, then set to work untying the leather straps on his boots.

"You are perhaps soft, my lord, but not delicate." Godric mused, almost to himself, for he did not look at Bertie. "A delicate man would not have survived in those mountains with winter approaching and danger possibly behind every tree. A delicate man would not have made a journey of nine days in seven, with injured and weak people to care for and only his stories of Camlann to keep them warm."

Godric stared at the cat that bore his name and so did not see Bertie freeze with his hands on his shirt hem.

"My people? You saw to them." He had no doubt Godric had cared for them, but he could not add to his burdens. Once he was clean and dressed, he would go out and see to them himself. His shoulders and neck still felt heavy, but Bertie was not certain the gold was entirely to blame.

"As requested, my lord." Godric nodded, going on when Bertie sighed again, with pleasure this time. "Beds found. Mouths fed. Wounds bandaged, as needed."

"Praise the lady. Thank you, Godric."

"I spoke to them," Godric offered, and Bertie glanced over curiously when this was all Godric seemed about to say. Godric generally didn't offer much in conversation unless they were alone, and even then it was usually at Bertie's instigation, not that he was complaining. He could spend hours prodding Godric to talk, to explain how he thought out steps before taking action, to offer his thoughts on everything from Northern food to the cut of Bertie's hem without growing tired of it. He rather liked the victory of getting Godric to speak at all, and of knowing that few others shared his confidences. But this time he did not have to wait long before Godric continued.

Godric hesitated once more, it was true, but only for the smallest moment. "I spoke to Torr also."

"Torr…Oh your unhappy captain." Bertie realized with a small start that the man had never offered his name. "He was not pleased to be sent on that mission, was he? Go find the king's fool brother if he's not already dead, meanwhile he was needed here." He went on when Godric seemed startled and ready to interrupt him. "Oh, don't lie to me now, Godric, or be polite. I walked through this camp last night. This isn't close to the entire army. This is barely a full regiment. What's happening? Where's my brother? Where's everyone else? You should not have worried about me."

He swallowed, because that had not been an easy thing to say, though it had sounded quite kingly, in a certain way, like something from a long cycle of warrior poems.

"I do not want to imagine the winter you would have faced if I had not." Godric swung his gaze up from the cat. For all his talk of winter, it was so very warm.

"Neither do I, my love," Bertie exhaled, then flinched at his choice of words. "I… Sorry. I know things must be different in the south. I did not mean to offend you, with my ways."

North or south, Bertie was crazy, it was fact. He wasn't sure why he had to say whatever was on his mind the moment he had the thought, but there it was, to his eternal embarrassment and shame. Just as he had been intrigued enough to befriend Godric when he'd first come to court and loudly defend him from anyone daring to scorn him for his low birth, he had just as noisily realized that he'd fallen in love with him and confirmed his own reputation for idiocy by announcing his affection to the world before he'd ever thought to say it directly to Godric, and in doing so seemed to have driven Godric away.

For far too long after that there had been no more careful talks over tea or vaguely amused lectures on how to better ride a horse. Since then, when Bertie had opened his big mouth until word of the raiders had come to them at the Keep, there had been only distance and "my lord" between them.

"I am not offended," Godric interrupted, then cleared his throat. "There are several regiments with your brother in the capital, preparing to move north."

"You're not with him?" Bertie threw his shirt to the floor. He was cold, but it was a relief to his sensitive skin to have it off. He pulled at his belt and the waist of his breeches until they fell too.

When there was no answer, only a sudden, tense kind of silence, he looked up, but Godric was regarding the cat with concentration, as though its shaggy fur was inspiring him to formulate a battle plan. Since that was unlikely, Bertie could only assume that once again he'd shocked Godric, though this time he hadn't said a word.

Someday, Bertie was going to make the journey to the south to find if others there were so prudish. The first time Godric had witnessed the drunken dancing and wild loving of Keep's harvest festival, he had flushed to his ears and stared, flat-eyed and undoubtedly disapproving, as Bertie had consumed glass after glass of wine and then called to him from the fields, begging for a dance, a kiss, a tumble.

Admittedly, the mysticism of the night tended to go to Bertie's head. As did the flagons of wine and sweet cakes. Of course, he had often wondered, tortured himself, if it could have been the difference in their positions holding Godric back and not mere distaste for Bertie, but the workers and field hands of the valley around the Keep had never hesitated to join in the festivities with anyone who was willing, whatever their status. During the last yield of the harvest, as the new year and winter approached, with the moon high and the sky dark, there was no difference between noble and peasant. At least not to be seen from the shadows of the bonfires. So as respectful as Godric always was of him, never failing to forget his title, this could not be the reason.

Nonetheless, this was precisely why autumn was Bertie's favorite time of year. Travelling from the capital with a smaller court was an additional reason to love it, but mostly it was dear to him because it meant days of riding with just Godric and a relative handful of others and heading toward festivities which promised him yet another chance to have Godric to himself amongst those bale fires.

He looked over at Godric, who continued to avert his eyes, and then stepped into the tub. The water was lukewarm but it felt divine. He immediately moaned low in his throat.

"I…am sorry there is no soap for you." Godric's voice was barely a whisper and stayed rough even when he coughed. Bertie merely stared at him, deliriously contemplating the water lapping at his chest and the rush of feeling that colored Godric's face when he looked over. "I have advised the king and his ministers, but I could not leave the rest of the country undefended or allow us to be outflanked. Though the north, by sea, is to their greatest advantage, a determined, vengeful enemy might attempt other routes."

"Like over the Western Mountains." Bertie realized he was staring and ducked to get his hair wet and scrub his scalp.

"…Thought that unlikely, but possible." Godric continued as Bertie brought his head back up. "They were over-ambitious in trying. Those mountains are difficult enough for one caravan during the summer. An army could not make it."

"Enough of one did," Bertie replied sharply, then slapped a hand to his mouth. He glanced over helplessly. Godric looked at him again, but only to bow his head as though Bertie were welcome to put a sword to his neck.

"The failure is mine."

"No. No." Bath or no, Bertie stood up, gesturing until he saw that this time Godric's gaze stayed on him. It travelled down, then slowly came back to his face. "You tried to tell me." Bertie's voice softened without his permission, perhaps at the renewed cold that left him trembling, or the heat in his blood at odds with his prickling skin. But he remembered that moment all too well, the morning light blinding as it had bounced off Godric's armor, the cheers and cries from the people outside, silence between them as he'd fought not to say anything.

Godric seemed to as well. The distance between them had never been so great, and then Godric plucked a length of fabric from the table and came forward to offer it as a towel. Bertie took it without looking away, compelling Godric to look at him. "You tried to tell me, but I stayed behind and told the soldiers to go."

"You had your obligation, my lord." He could tell if Godric was answering obediently or teasing him. Most people would have since Bertie had never been the sort of talk of responsibilities. But Bertie's mind was clouded and dizzy with all of Godric near and attending to him and he could not seem to think clearly.

Staring through the wet strands of his hair, Bertie couldn't see much, but gasped at the brief second when Godric did not relinquish the towel, and he was surrounded by Godric's arms. His shiver as they left him was not for show, just as it wasn't only exhaustion that made him ache.

It had been so long since he had been with anyone, and this was his Godric. He was burning with need at the barest touch.

"Godric please," he whimpered without shame. "I beg of you. Don't call me that again." In the early days of knowing him, Godric had addressed him as everyone else but Aethir did, as Lord Aethelbert. Of course in those days, Bertie had not realized his feelings and so had not sung them at every opportunity and become the bane of Godric's existence. He didn't think it was entirely in his mind that they had grown close in that far away time, though he sometimes daydreamed about the morning they had shared a bowl of the daisy tea favored in the south. He had only himself to blame that those times were over.

"It offends you?" Godric lowered his voice even more to ask the simple question, seeming to choose his words carefully. Bertie shut his eyes tight and set about forcefully rubbing away the wet chill. "Am I not addressing you correctly? I can never be sure with you Northerners, but a lord is a lord. It's not wise to forget that, I learned that at a young age and have been reminded of it often since then."

Bertie stilled with one hand in his hair, his throat dry and tight.

Godric was low born, it was true, but it was not a subject ever directly questioned, not with his worth proven, not with the king's esteem for him. Others might still scorn him for his way of speaking, his frankness of manner, everything that made him who he was, but Bertie never had, not even when he itched to sew new clothes for him and keep his armored polished. He looked over.

His beloved had turned from him and was seated with the cat in his lap. His hand dwarfed the dainty creature, but it seemed content enough.

Godric petting Godric, the cat that had nearly…no, it had not been the cat, but Bertie's reckless mouth. Elated from so much time spent in the company of the country's hero, and yet relieved to be at the Keep and no longer on the road, Bertie had been a bit over exuberant, as usual.

It was a trait that the people of the valley had always seemed to regard fondly, unlike the stuffier members of his brother's court. Maybe it was something about the valley people, a difference in attitudes as large as the difference in customs between Camlann and the southern cities. In the valley below the Keep they kept their feet bare in the summer as well as in the warmth of early autumn, and held all children, especially those conceived outside of marriage at the harvest, to be sacred.

Bertie joining them, his feet bare beneath his skirts, only seemed to delight them. He did not know how it made Godric feel, if it upset his sensibilities or delighted him or merely amused him, but it made Bertie wonder and dream more. Sometimes about dancing with him, sometimes about someday seeing Godric's feet. It was another reason to adore the annual trip to the valley with all its rituals; it gave him a tradition that might mean he could see Godric tipsy among the fires and hay, that someday he might see him laughing.

Arrival at the Keep began with a welcome by old friends and an exchange of gifts that was a carryover from a tribute of centuries ago. When Bertie had been offered a kitten by one delightful child instead of the usual gifts, he could not refuse. Aethir got casks of wine and a stag, Aethelbert got a kitten. He did not mind.

"How was I to say no?" He had explained later at the head table during the banquet for their arrival, after the kitten had poked its head from his bodice to sniff at his plate. Bertie had been wearing a puffed bodice, not tight, and the kitten might have gone unnoticed if it had not gotten hungry.

The courtiers with them had laughed. His brother had merely smiled and asked for his new pet's name, and then, as an afterthought, wondered why the cat had been hidden in his clothing.

The poor thing had been cold. Bertie should have said that. Instead he'd looked over to see if Godric had laughed too.

Seated not far from dear Aethir, Godric had not been smiling—he rarely did at court functions—but he had seemed to hold the same softness in his gaze as had the king. That same fondness for Bertie. It had been remarkable.

Thus, what Bertie had said had been the loud, and stupid, "Because how else would I keep my little Godric with me at all times?" He had named the kitten, humiliated himself, and embarrassed Godric in one fell swoop. It was almost a natural talent.

The others present had found this hilarious, but then, there was very little about Bertie's public devotion that they did not find amusing. The king's half-brother blindly in love with the duke of war himself, a man who, to most of them, was still a stable boy and always would be. Godric would keep them safe and win their wars and fight their battles, but he had rough hands and broad shoulders and had taught himself to read and write his name when over the age of twenty and so would remain a peasant, just as Bertie was always the child with the foreign mother, tolerated and sometimes courted because he often had the king's ear and because their father had made certain that his bloodline could not be denied by giving him his mouthful of a name.

He cleared his throat.

"I am hardly a lord, Godric. My mother was not a lady, and regardless of my father's generosity, I do not have any real title at all." Unless he counted bastard. He had been given lands and money, had been treated well and loved by his family, but it was true, he was no lord.

"I am afraid I must disagree, my lord." Godric scratched, ever so carefully, and the cat purred, obscenely happy. It was truly the strangest cat, throwing itself at strangers instead of running from them. Perhaps it had grown so used to being carried next to Bertie's heart that it sought out the rhythm with others.

Without warning Godric raised his head and Bertie ended his daydream of lying with his ear to Godric's chest. "I have watched you for some time. Along with your brother, and one or two esteemed generals often at my table, you are one of the few I have met with a true claim to nobility."

Plainspoken and true, it hit Bertie like an arrow, or perhaps that was Godric's gaze. The towel fell right from his hands but somehow he felt warm. Not warm, hot.

"I… It's well known that I'm a fool, Godric," he whispered, not certain why he spoke, why he'd argue if Godric had finally ceased to find him a complete nuisance. Godric shook his head and then gently placed the cat on the floor before standing up.

"You are the brother of a good king and your great father's son, my lord," he disagreed quietly. "You are noble to your toes." He paused, then firmed his lips. His face seemed to grow darker. "There is food there, and clothes," he waved at the table, glancing over Bertie before politely averting his eyes once again, "if you wish to visit with your people before I figure out how to best get you all safely away, and in the meantime--"

"Clothes?" Bertie looked over and saw fine cloth. He wrinkled his brow.

"Your brother's--"

"Why do you have my brother's clothing in your tent?" Bertie wondered sharply, shutting up only when Godric's expression filled with disbelief.

"He left them here." With hindsight, this was obvious, and Bertie almost ducked his head. He settled for a shrug and then a small smile when Godric went on about how he did not think the clothes Bertie had been wearing suited his soft skin. It was not an insult when Godric said it. "In the meantime," Godric finally finished, pointedly, "my tent is yours, my lord."

"You…" Bertie's breath left him. "Where will you sleep?"

Godric froze for one moment, then inhaled. Bertie ignored his probable discomfort.

"Your bed is lovely, Godric, but I won't push you out of it." He wasn't teasing, not even a little. He would never push Godric out of any bed.

Perhaps knowing that, or used to him, Godric's lips briefly turned up and he slanted a look to him that was surprisingly warm. "The ground is good enough for me, my lord." Then he half-turned away.

"I've slept on the ground too, Godric beloved, and I don't care if you were a stable boy, the ground isn't fit for anyone, much less the man with a nation relying on him. Sleep in your bed."

"Is that an order?" Godric returned softly, with all manner and respect, then scratched at his chin, which was bare and clean-shaven, a fact that Bertie had so far nicely and properly refrained from mentioning. He gave up that attempt in the face of Godric's stupid sense of honor due him.

"I didn't order you to do that!" he insisted, a touch shrilly, only to fall silent when Godric smiled again. His smile was as stunning as it was unexpected.

"We all have our reasons to do what we do, my lord," Godric offered seriously, even with that faint, warm pleasure still in his eyes, and then left the tent while Bertie stood there, stunned and naked, behind him.


~~~


Part Two